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Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock. Do you remember the first time we met?
You’d probably make fun of me for even asking. You, with your magnificent brain, not remember? John, you’d say, you may have an intellect of limited capacity, but don’t make the mistake of lumping me in with the rest of you lot.
How was I supposed to know? You once deleted the solar system as irrelevant. How could a random meeting between two people even be on the same level?
It was sheer luck, you told me once, pure chance that we even crossed paths.
I wonder, though.
---
It was two weeks into my last summer before uni, and I was finally moving to London.
The train was exceptionally full that night, with practically every seat occupied, but I didn’t mind. The earlier awkwardness with my parents on the train platform had all but vanished, leaving in its wake a sort of buoyant exhilaration that left me lightheaded as I moved down the aisle, searching for a free space.
I nearly collapsed on a seemingly empty seat before stopping and noticing that there was a beautiful navy blue violin case on it. It wasn’t the violin, however, that initially caught my attention.
Next to the violin was one of the most striking men I had ever seen.
He was listening to music on an old Discman, wild black curls falling over his closed eyes, with a bordeaux leather jacket worn over a dark shirt and slim-cut denims. There was a studded choker around his neck, and his right forefinger, which was tapping out a rather energetic beat on the armrest, was encased in an intricate silver armour ring.
Oh, to be tall, pale, and effortlessly cool instead of short, frumpy, and in too-large homemade jumpers. London was probably rife with people like him.
His eyes snapped open then, as if he could hear what I was thinking, and glanced up at me. God, his eyes. It really wasn’t fair for him to have such lovely eyes as well.
“Well? Are you going to stand there all day?” He had stopped tapping out a beat and was staring up at me, looking mildly annoyed.
“I could, I suppose, but I’d rather not. I’d also rather not sit on your violin, that tends to be uncomfortable.”
I think I caught him by surprise with my answer, because he gave a small involuntary smile and wordlessly removed the violin case from the seat. I suppose the default Watson reaction of being nonplussed has its benefits.
I’m not sure why I even attempted talking to him. When trying to strike up conversation I tended to babble, and I didn’t even particularly enjoy small talk, but something drew me to this man. I wanted to see him smile again.
“So, you’re a musician? You don’t look like a classical musician, though. Do you play violin in a band then, like The Corrs?”
As I said, I wasn’t particularly good at small talk.
He didn’t seem to mind though, just looked amused as he pressed the button for the next track on his Discman. “Well, you don’t particularly look like a medical school student, and yet. Your main mistake, of course, is assuming that something has to be one or the other without considering the alternatives.”
“Oh, so you’re both? That’s really cool! How’d you know about med school?”
He looked baffled for a moment, as if no one had ever called him ‘cool’ before, which surely couldn’t be the case? He recovered quickly, rolling his eyes and pointing to my small duffel, which had a pin loudly proclaiming ‘I (HEART) BARTS’ in garish pink, complete with an anatomically correct rendering of a human heart.
Right, rather obvious. Even so: “Someone could have just given me that pin, you know. Or I could have bought it as a souvenir, or a lark.”
“Even if that were the case, only someone who both considered it some sort of achievement to get into Barts and had exceedingly poor taste would actually display that thing in public.”
I couldn’t help it; I giggled. He was just so over the top in everything, from the way he looked to the way he spoke. I wasn’t insulted in the slightest by being called tasteless; Harry had said it often enough when we were growing up, enough that I actually looked forward to wearing whatever hideous yet utterly comfortable jumper our mother would give us for Christmas just to see the look of horror on her face.
The man beside me—boy? I realised then that he couldn’t have been much older than me after all, despite his deep voice and obvious advantage in height—looked surprised again, then gave another small smile, one that bordered on a grin.
Score!
“Hey, d’you want to order a beer? Assuming you’re legal, of course.”
He yanked off his earphones then, looking scandalised. “Of course I’m legal! I’m 18, just as you are. Are you seriously suggesting that you look older than I do? You’re wearing a stripey jumper made by your mum and still have lipstick residue on your cheek from being kissed by her!”
“Not really seeing what that has to do with anything, but fine, then. Look, I’ll get the first round to make it up to you.”
The beers loosened both of us up a tad, and suddenly I was telling him all about Sarah in London and getting into Barts, and he in turn told me all sorts of sordid stories about our fellow passengers based on anything from how they tied their shoelaces to the cut of their clothes. The conversation was easy and entertaining, due largely to his acerbic wit.
He offered to get the next round when we had finished our beers, and before I could start on it, he stopped me with a touch to my wrist and asked, “During occasions such as these, isn’t it customary for people to give a toast?”
“Well, sure, we can do that. A toast, then, to—actually, I don’t know what we’re toasting. You know, I don’t even know your name.” I’d been talking to this person for almost two hours, and I didn’t even realise.
“Yes, I was wondering when you’d get around to that; commonly introductions are done first. Honestly, and people say I don’t have any social skills.”
I swatted him lightly on the shoulder. “My social skills are fine, thank you very much. And generally people give their name when asked, rather than insults.”
“Sherlock Holmes.” The man—boy—Sherlock—held out his hand calmly for a handshake.
“Oh.” It figured that someone like him would have a weird name. “Well. Nice to finally meet you, Sherlock. My name’s John Watson.” I took his hand in mine and shook it once. Unexpectedly his hand was damp, as if he was nervous. Possibly it was just due to the alcohol.
“Now that we’ve fulfilled that particular obligation, can we have the toast?”
I wasn’t entirely sure why he was insisting on one, but as I’d done all evening, I obliged him. “To us, then,” I said, raising my glass.
“To two boys of the same age, meeting in the same train,” Sherlock replied, clinking his glass with mine. “And to chance meetings and improbable happenings,” he added, before settling back to take a drink.
The conversation continued to flow easily between us until we finally arrived in London. There Sarah met me at the station, and Sherlock went his own way; I turned to call him after greeting Sarah, but he had gone.
I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was, after all, just a chance meeting on a train.
---
I was born in a perfectly nondescript town, prosperous yet too small to be a city, with hardly any tourist attractions for outsiders to visit. My mother and father knew each other growing up, had been together since uni, and were a sweet couple and loving parents. They had the requisite two children, a loyal dog, and a charming brick cottage with a small flower garden out front. All in all, perfectly normal people.
There was nothing to indicate that I would be any different, growing up. My face was kind but not exceptionally good-looking. I had several friends but was not exceptionally popular. I did well in class but was not exceptionally bright, and despite a predilection for rugby and climbing trees, not exceptionally athletic either, due to my smaller stature.
All in all, it was a perfectly pleasant childhood. Rather happy, in fact.
Having given little indication of my impulsive nature during my earlier years, I would have to say that my parents were blindsided by my decision to leave our warm, close-knit community and instead study medicine in London. However, decent people that they were, they helped me with the application and wholeheartedly supported my decision after recovering from their initial surprise.
Even so, I didn’t tell them my decision to actually try living in London the summer before school started. It wasn’t until I was already on my way to the station that Harry tattled on me. My parents, instead of getting angry or even disappointed, just met me at the train station as I was leaving and wished me well. They loaned me money, gave me my aunt’s number in London in case I couldn’t find a place to stay, and, after promising to send the rest of my stuff once I'd given them a forwarding address, told me to write or call any time I needed anything. My mother hugged me and kissed me on the face several times as I squirmed. It was quite similar to how she sent me off on my first day of primary school.
As it went, though I was unexceptional yet rather capable in most things, I was apparently pure rubbish at teenage rebellion.
---
“The bedroom is over there, I made up the lilo for you,” Sarah said, pointing vaguely. “I have extra towels if you need them. Do you need help with anything else, John?”
“No, I’m good. Sarah, I really do appreciate this. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon. Speaking of, would you have any idea where I should start looking for a flat?”
“What, you mean you’re only going to start looking now?” Sarah’s face was a mixture of disbelief and fond exasperation. “This is just like that time you waited until the last minute to apply to Barts and ran around like a headless chicken for a week. Honestly, John, what would you do without me?”
“Die in a skip somewhere, I suppose. Sorry, Sarah. I can stay with my aunt if I don’t find a flat soon, though.”
She frowned. “John, you’re going to have to start making your own way in the world. You can’t keep relying on other people.”
Sherlock once said that when my face crumpled in disappointment I looked like a kicked puppy, and I suppose there must have been some truth to that because Sarah visibly deflated and sighed. “All right, yeah, I’ll ask around about a flat. I suppose you must be busy, since you’re going to start working part-time too, right?”
“Um. Well, I was going to start looking for a job tomorrow.”
“Oh, for—John!”
---
Sarah’s family moved to London more than a year ago. We dated briefly during Secondary School, but she broke up with me after three weeks when she found out her family was going to leave due to her father’s new job. I suspect we tried dating just because it was what was expected of us, as evidenced by the almost constant teasing we received, but we were both a bit relieved when it ended.
I missed Sarah when she left, but not because I was pining or interested in rekindling a romantic relationship. She’d been one of my closer friends, the only one I’d confided my medical ambitions to, mostly because she’d always been interested in being a doctor as well. Once, during a rare blackout due to a storm, she spent the time we were stranded in school drawing the bones on both the front and back of my left hand, copying the diagrams in a copy of Grey’s Anatomy I’d borrowed from the library during lunchtime. She drew with a black sharpie, the strokes confident and precise despite the weak emergency lights and the uneven surface of my hand, and labelled the bones using a red ballpoint.
Even after I’d washed the markings off the next day, I could still feel the point of the pen digging into my skin.
I think on some level Sarah understood, because around a month after she moved, I received an information pamphlet and an application form to Barts in the mail. She helped me apply to Barts, and, when I told her I wanted to live in London, offered to let me stay at her flat for a few days while I was looking for a place to live.
---
I found a job quickly enough, thankfully, or Sarah might have started throwing things at my head. We had lunch at a pub near Barts called Angelo's, and they had a sign posted on the window saying they needed waitstaff. I applied then and there, explaining to the rather large but friendly-looking owner, who I later found out was Angelo himself, that I could work full-time for the summer, but would have to cut back to part-time work once the term started.
After a half hour I came back out and told Sarah smugly, “I’m starting tomorrow. See? You worry too much. Things’ll work out, you’ll see.”
Sarah threw a peanut at my head—apparently I was too late to prevent her throwing things—but grudgingly agreed. “Things do have a way of working out, when it comes to you. By the way, we’ll see later if your luck holds out. A friend of mine might have some news about a flat. I told him to drop by.”
Her friend turned out to be another incoming med school student at Barts. Mike Stamford was open and friendly, with a genial disposition and an easy laugh. He was the type of person you couldn’t help but feel comfortable with, mostly because it didn’t seem like anything could faze him. He conquered awkward silences and uncomfortable conversation by barreling through them with good humour and interesting asides.
“So John, Sarah tells me you were looking for a flat? Are you picky?”
“Yeah, not that picky, as long as the plumbing and heating work and it’s affordable.”
“What, so you’d be fine with no electricity?” Sarah teased. “I seem to remember you hiding under your desk from ghosts when there was that blackout at school.”
“I wasn’t hiding, I was looking for my things! Fine then, and electricity. You’re too pedantic, Sarah.” All right, I’ll admit the wind and the lightning made for rather convincing visual and auditory illusions which may have prompted an involuntary reaction, but still.
“Well, would you be willing to share a flat? There’s this guy I know, he’s looking for a flatshare. Good location, too. He’s a bit weird, though for some reason I don’t think you’d mind that much.”
“You got that right,” Sarah said, grinning. “That’s because he’s a weirdo himself.”
I retaliated by throwing a peanut at Sarah; it wasn’t like I’d started it, after all. “Look who’s talking. But seriously, I guess I don’t mind having a flatshare. What’s this guy like, anyway?”
Mike smiled, as if he had a secret. “I think he’s at the flat; we could probably stop by for a visit so that you can see the place and meet him. Just try not to be easily offended, I suppose.”
And with that cryptic warning, we finished up our meals and left to see the weirdo’s flat.
---
We got off the tube at Baker Street. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was starting to hang low in the sky, making the buildings cast interesting shadows. There was a dreamlike feeling in the air, almost, as we walked down Baker Street to meet Mike’s mysterious friend.
Mike buzzed the ringer at a black door with 221B written on it on gold letters.
“How come it’s 221B, and not just 221?” I asked Sarah as Mike waited for the door to be answered. It was opened by a sweet-looking lady in a purple dress, who introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson.
Sarah just shrugged and followed Mike, who’d already disappeared inside.
---
Coincidence is a strange thing.
If you compute the probability of any specific sequence of events, you end up with an unimaginably small number. The probability of any one of us, existing as we are now, is a combination of our parents having met and reproduced successfully, which in turn is due to their parents having met and reproduced, and so on.
So when you think about it, perhaps meeting you again wasn’t all that remarkable, in the context of all the remarkable things that happen everyday. Improbable, perhaps, but a mutual acquaintance isn’t some sign of the Apocalypse, or the Second Coming.
When you take it all the way to the other side, maybe meeting you again was something that was always going to happen.
---
Standing in the doorway of 221B, I fell in love.
It was a beautiful Victorian-styled flat, and I could see the dust dancing in the pale afternoon light. I instantly loved everything about it, even the garish wallpaper and what appeared to be a human skull on the side table. Two armchairs were tilted towards the fireplace, looking warm and well-worn. Mike and Sarah were talking to Mrs. Hudson beside the square dining table, but I didn’t hear what they were talking about. I only had eyes for 221B.
“I’ll take it,” I declared, even as I moved to look at the rest of the flat. There was no question in my mind. I wanted to live there more than anything.
“What?” Sarah had that look on her face again. “John, you should really take things more seriously. You haven’t even met your supposed flatmate!”
“On the contrary,” said a surprisingly familiar voice. “Hello, John Watson.”
I turned towards the bedroom door, which had been opened without my realising. “Sherlock!”
He was dressed more casually this time, in normal pyjama bottoms and a blue dressing gown, though for some reason he was still wearing the armour ring. He was carrying a violin in his other hand, which was the same navy blue colour as his violin case.
“Wait, you two know each other?” Mike looked somewhat disappointed. I suppose he was looking forward to shocking people with Sherlock.
“Yeah!” I had the largest, most idiotic-looking grin on my face. “We met on the train to London.”
“Yes, and I see you’re about to start working part-time. Angelo's, was it?”
“Wait, how’d you know that?” Sarah asked suspiciously. “Mike, did you tell him about John?”
Mike raised his hands defensively. “No, not a word!”
Sherlock, in an action that was already starting to become normal despite our short time together, rolled his eyes. “Obvious. John has one of Angelo's coasters in his pocket, so you just came from there for lunch. However, he also has an ink stain on the edge of his sleeve because Angelo likes using leaky old fountain pens whenever he has to sign something, What else would you sign for Angelo other than an employment contract?”
My grin, which I thought couldn’t get any wider, defied expectations. “That’s brilliant!”
Sherlock was looking at me strangely. Scratch that, everyone was looking at me strangely. “You really just say what comes into your head, don’t you?” Sherlock asked, still looking slightly off-balance.
“Oh, uh. Sorry. I’ll stop.”
“No,” Sherlock said, looking like he was fighting off a smile, “It’s fine.” He came back to himself and swept by imperiously, collapsing on the sofa. “I play the violin, as even you should have been able to deduce by now, and I sometimes don’t talk for days. When can you move in?”
---
“John,” Sarah asked me worriedly, as we left 221B after Mrs. Hudson force-fed us tea, “Are you sure about this? It could be dangerous, moving in with someone you’ve just met.”
‘It’s fine, Sarah.” My cheeks hurt from grinning, but somehow I couldn’t stop. “It’s all fine.”
---
I was busy adjusting to work, London, and the new flat for the first few days after moving in, so I didn’t get to see much of Sherlock for a time. I sent my new address to my parents, learnt the ropes at work, and busied myself with buying supplies and items for the flat. I suppose at the time it was a novel experience, so I was a bit over-enthusiastic.
I didn’t really know what Sherlock did, most of the time. He was usually still holed up in his room when I left for work, and when I got back he’d alternately be out, murdering his violin, or sulking on the sofa.
We settled into our routines after a while, and for a time life was almost quiet, bar the instances when Sherlock composed late at night. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to do anything domestic, though; he left practically all the shopping to me, and looked vaguely horrified whenever I asked him his opinion on the curtains or the silverware.
“Sherlock, I bought a new kettle, but I didn’t buy mugs because I didn’t know if you had a preference. I saw a blue set that would match your violin, if you’d like.”
“...Why would I want my mug to match my violin?” For reasons unknown, Sherlock was hanging upside down on the sofa, his legs hooked on the back.
“For the same reason your violin matches your case and that scarf you like to wear. Don’t pretend you’re above such things, Sherlock. You’re one of the vainest people I know.”
“Aren’t the mugs for both of us? How does it match you?”
“Well, I’m don’t really care about that sort of thing. I do like the colour, though.”
“Yes, and I suppose they would match your eyes.” Sherlock was plucking the strings of the violin now, like a ukulele.
“...What?”
“Nothing, John. Go on, just buy them if you like.”
I bought a pair of mugs, one navy, one sand. Despite saying he couldn’t care a whit, he always reached for the blue mug whenever I made tea.
---
“Bored!” Sherlock declared one evening, after a supremely busy shift which left me with a headache. I groaned, putting my head in my hands. Sherlock declaring himself bored never resulted in anything good. Last week he almost collapsed a wall trying to soundproof his room.
“Get a job or go out with friends, then. Just what do you do, anyway?”
“I’m a musician, that’s my job. And friends are boring.”
“Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence. If you’re a musician, where do you perform? Anyway, I thought you had a band. Where are your bandmates?”
Sherlock scowled and shifted on the sofa, turning his back to me. “Other people aren’t reliable. It’s better to be alone.”
“Oh, come on.” I dropped down beside him, shifting his feet onto my lap. Sherlock, despite being prickly and arrogant, had little conception of personal space, and after a few days of being flustered I gave up and just went with it. “That just sounds stupid, and you know it. It’s like that piece you play at night, when I can’t sleep. It’s beautiful on its own, but even I can tell it’s incomplete. It’s a duet, isn’t it?”
Sherlock’s calf tensed under my hand, which usually signified an incoming rant, but it was interrupted by a rapping at the door. “Sherlock dear, you have some visitors.”
He suddenly twisted away from my hand to sit up, looking perplexed. “Visitors?”
---
I massaged the sides of my head as I waited for the kettle to boil in the kitchen. The argument in the sitting room was only making my headache worse. God, these musicians were all so dramatic.
“That’s it, get out, the both of you! Spare me from your ham-fisted attempts to ‘bring the band back’ or whatever it is you think you should do.”
“You stubborn arse, will you just listen? One setback and you run off to God-knows-where without even telling us. We don’t need Jim, Sherlock! We can go pro without him!”
“Forget it, Greg, we should go. He’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time.”
“Sally, you’re not helping.”
I cleared my throat as I re-entered the sitting room with a tray of tea, and got three glares for my efforts. Sherlock grabbed the navy mug and sulked on his armchair, his legs curled in on his body like a child. I sighed, setting my own mug down on the side table, before serving the other two cups to our so-called visitors. “Listen, you’re not going to convince Sherlock by arguing with him, so why not let him hear what you’ve got?”
The rugged-looking brunette—Greg?—in ripped denims and vest frowned. “What do you mean?”
Sherlock gave a long, drawn-out sigh and set his tea aside. “John means whatever pedestrian music you’ve written and come to make me listen to, Lestrade. There’d be no other reason you and Sally would visit bringing your full gear and a boombox. And before you start, I’m not interested.”
The wild-haired girl called Sally, who was wearing practical boots and a not-so-practical skirt and stockings, scowled. “I told you, Greg, this was pointless.”
“Oh come on, Sherlock,” I said in a goading voice. “You were just complaining earlier that you were bored. Why not listen to whatever it is? You can make fun of it after listening to it properly.”
“Hey, are you really trying to help?”
“Yeah, who are you, anyway?”
“Dammit, all of you just shut up!” Sherlock was clutching at his hair, eyes screwed shut. “You have five minutes, Lestrade.”
---
The four of us were standing over the old Sharp boombox Sally had brought, which was sitting ominously on top of the dining table. It was a bit ridiculous, considering we had four chairs anyway, but maybe it was bad luck to sit or something. Sally paused, as if counting in her head, before pressing the ‘Play’ button.
An energetic guitar started playing from the tinny speakers, which was soon joined by a pounding drumbeat. It was a really cool tune, and I found myself swaying to the music. Sherlock, though, looked unmoved.
Greg seemed to sense the cold atmosphere, because while we were listening he surreptitiously hooked up an amp to his electric guitar. When Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably to ask Sally to stop the music or issue some cutting remark, Greg strummed the guitar, accompanying the playing music.
The change was immediate and electric. Suddenly the fun but somewhat forgettable song had life and spirit, and it seemed to infuse Sherlock. His expression hardly changed, but there was a different look in his mouth and eyes I was starting to recognise. It seemed Sally knew it as well, as she started to grin and tap on the table in a rough approximation of the drumbeat.
Sherlock did an abrupt about-face, and I worried for a second that it hadn’t worked, but he grabbed his favourite blue scarf and a vintage leather jacket that he had hanging on the coat rack, wearing both items in a single fluid motion before grabbing his violin and jumping on the dining table, beside the boombox.
“Hello, we’re The Irregulars,” Sherlock announced, using his bow to mime speaking into a microphone. “Are you listening, John? I’m going to give you a night you won’t forget.” He gave a wicked, full-on grin I’d never seen on him before, and then started to sing in made-up lyrics to Greg and Sally’s music.
It was the first time I heard Sherlock actually sing. I felt breathless, watching him sing nonsense lyrics on top of our dining table while Greg and Sally jammed. It was fantastic, and somewhat terrifying. I couldn’t help just standing and watching Sherlock with wide eyes, as if I was frozen in time and space. I felt as if moving at all would be tantamount to some sort of sacrilege.
Mrs. Hudson started pounding on the door a few minutes later and threatened to throw us out on the street. We quickly packed the equipment, giggling. Sherlock managed to produce drinks out of nowhere since the nearby liquor store’s owner owed him a favour, and after entirely too much alcohol, snark, and revealing childhood stories, the four of us collapsed in various configurations on the sitting room furniture and floor.
---
I waved to Mike and Sarah from my position by the bulletin board as they came in to Angelo's. “Hey guys! Be with you in a minute.”
“I thought your shift was over by this time?” Sarah peered curiously at the printout I’d just posted, complete with Wordart and about five different fonts. “You’re looking for a bassist? Is Sherlock forming a band?”
“Yeah I’m done, just posting these things. Actually Sherlock already has a band, but their old bass player was a berk and left them hanging, so they need a new one.”
“How’s it working out with Sherlock, then?”
“Pretty good. It’s brilliant, actually. He’s an amazing musician. You should come see him play sometime.” Mike had already saved a table, so Sarah and I made our way over.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Really now. How about you, Mike, have you ever heard Sherlock play? Is he as brilliant as John says?”
Mike ordered beers for us and grinned. “Yeah, he plays the violin at the lab sometimes. My dad complains about it when he’s there. It’s worse when he’s frustrated with whatever experiment he’s doing, because then it’s usually just a series of atonal shrieks.”
“Oh yeah, it’s awful when he’s bored, it’s like he wants everyone to experience his pain.” I shuddered, remembering Sherlock and his sulks. Mrs. Hudson threatened to kick us out again after a particularly bad one.
“What does he even do in the lab at Barts, anyway? Why does your dad even let him in, Mike?” Sarah was always interested in what Sherlock got up to, but her interest was closer to morbid fascination, like how people slowed down to watch a car wreck.
“Eh, when we were kids my dad caught him sneaking in, but he figured out from some papers that one of Dad’s researchers was stealing medicines or some such, I never really knew the specifics. As for what he does, even I don’t really know, but last week he was ranting about the chemical composition of rosin.”
“Um, excuse me?” A short, nervous-looking girl with her brown hair in a ponytail was trying to get the bartender’s attention. She had what looked to be a guitar case slung across her back, and was clutching one of the flyers I’d posted outside in her right hand. “Um, it says here you’re looking for a bass player for a band?”
---
Molly Hooper was quiet and unassuming, and Sherlock almost dismissed her out of hand. I felt sorry for the poor girl; she was trembling so badly after Sherlock gave her a once over and said snidely, “Is that it?” I thought she’d drop her instrument.
Sally smacked Sherlock upside the head and whispered fiercely, “Stop freaking her out.”
Greg, sighing, stood up. “All right, look, I’m going to play something. Join in if you like, all right?”
He started playing then, that song he played that first night. Molly bit her lip, listened for a few bars, and then played as well.
Any hesitance she might have had disappeared when she played. She started off with a steady beat, and when the key changed, started to fly. Her fingers were both quick and sure, and when the two of them stopped, Molly’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining.
Sally turned to Sherlock with a grin. “I think we have our bassist.”
Sherlock snorted, but then stood up, violin in hand. “All right then, Irregulars. Let’s have our first practice. See if you lot can keep up.”
---
Sherlock, when he was focussed and productive, was a wonder. The Irregulars started practicing regularly, and Sherlock started composing at breakneck speed. By the time the term was about to start at Barts, they had almost an album of material, including some of their older songs.
I felt more and more drawn to Sherlock’s world as the days passed. Even after I started juggling my part-time job and schoolwork at Barts with Sarah and Mike—Molly was, unexpectedly, in the medical field as well, but was taking up Forensic Medical Science at Queen Mary—I still found time to attend band practices with The Irregulars. I never really did much apart from watch in rapt attention, but it was always fun. Better yet, it was always interesting.
---
“John, are you ready? We need to leave in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock was always artfully styled whenever he left the flat, but he had outdone himself. He was wearing another complicated leather jacket with crisscrossed chains, and no shirt underneath.
“What? Where are we going? This better not be another one of your weird jaunts, Sherlock.” I had just come from another long shift, and had exams the next day.
“It’s our first gig, John, I told you a week ago! I helped the owner of The Criterion Bar with some problems with their sound system, and they agreed to let us play.”
“...Sherlock. Are you sure I was even in the flat when you told me that? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have forgotten your first live gig.”
“Well, it isn’t my fault you don’t listen. Are you coming?”
Of course I was coming. Silly Sherlock.
Because how could I miss this? Sherlock, singing his heart out, the epicentre of an earthquake, everyone drawn in his orbit, his beat. All around me people were bouncing and dancing in sync, taken by his energy and voice. Yet I myself couldn’t move, could only stand stock still in the mayhem, could do nothing but stare as Sherlock sang the song he’d written that night he and Greg and Sally had jammed in the flat and almost gotten kicked out by Mrs. Hudson.
---
The Irregulars, contrary to their name, started playing regularly at The Criterion, and things fell into another sort of routine. I think I might have been happy living my life like that, basking in Sherlock’s brilliance. Sometimes I’d stand in the middle of 221B, the flat I’d loved at first sight, and imagined staying my entire life here. Whenever I did that, I was filled with an incandescence I could feel to the tips of my fingers, something I could only name as happiness.
Sherlock was never someone who could stay in stasis, though. He’d barge into my room and lie down on top of my covers, talking about whatever random thing he wanted while I tried to sleep. Only the grace of a very strong lock prevented him from doing the same when I was in the bathroom.
Even so, I think I might have continued on this path indefinitely with Sherlock. Everything tended to work around me, after all. Until they didn’t.
---
“John? this is your Aunt Meg. I’m sorry, but … your father died last night in an accident. I’m leaving London tomorrow, will you be coming with me? John? Hello?”
---
One of the things I liked about Sherlock was that I never had to tell him anything. After I received that phone call, he opened the door of my bedroom and slipped behind me on the bed. It was one in the morning, but I was still wide awake, staring at a blank spot on the opposite wall.
“John.” Sherlock wasn’t touching any part of me, but I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “I … do you need me to go with you?”
God, I wanted nothing more. I was surprised Sherlock even offered, but at the same time, I knew something like this had been coming. It was inevitable, if I thought about it for more than five minutes. Even so:
“I’ll be fine, Sherlock. Besides, that agent is visiting your next gig, right? You can’t miss that.”
“John—”
“I’ll be fine, Sherlock. But thank you. I’ll be back after a week, anyway.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, but started tapping out a melody on my spine. He sometimes did something similar on my arm when he was agitated.
We stayed that way until I fell asleep. When I woke up he was gone, and I met my Aunt Meg to go back home for the funeral.
I got used to never telling Sherlock anything, not even the important things. That probably wasn’t a very good habit to develop after all.
---
My mother hadn’t left the sphere of what had been her and Dad’s bedroom for four days. Harry or Aunt Meg would leave trays of food on the side table, which were sometimes eaten, sometimes not.
Inside the room, the air felt stale and stagnant. Gladstone raised his head from my mother’s lap and whined when I opened the door, but Mum didn’t even look at me, just kept staring out the small gap between the white curtains, the tips of her fingers at her mouth, as if in a constant state of shock.
“Mum?” I sat tentatively at the edge of the bed, started to reach out and take her hand but then hesitated, afraid to disturb the tableau. “Mum, I’m here.” I wanted to say more, but all the words seemed to gather at my throat in a tangle, and the only thing that came out was a huff of breath that sounded suspiciously like a small sob.
Gladstone whined again and started licking my fingers, which were still hanging in mid-air, and I, grateful for the distraction, scratched him between the ears. We stayed that way until the quality of the light seeping through the windows changed. Then my mother spoke, still not looking at me, almost as if she was speaking to the stale air around us.
“I don’t know what I am without him. I never really learned how.”
Mum lived two houses down from Dad when they were kids. They grew up knowing each other, got married straight out of uni. I remember thinking just three months before, when Harry had moved out after graduating from the nearby Art School, that they were like Binary Stars, moving around the other in mutual gravitation. They loved the both of us, but they didn’t really need us, not really. Even as they helped Harry pack, Mum packing books in boxes and Dad picking up the trash around the room, they stayed unconsciously in each other’s orbit.
I felt helpless at that moment, with my mother who’d lost her movement, and I didn’t know how to fix anything because I’d never really known her without Dad, either.
---
“John.” Uncle Myron held me under the elbow as he looked at me gravely. It was similar to what he did when he told me our first dog died when I was six. “Listen, your father made some bad investments before he died, and with your mother like this, she might not be able to continue funding your studies.” He paused, and handed me an envelope. “Look, you have other options. We can’t help out much, financially, but you should consider these.”
There was a certain numbness spreading through my veins. I couldn’t move, but it was precisely the opposite feeling I got whenever Sherlock sang. I felt like I was underwater with weights on my limbs, and sinking.
Uncle Myron was a veteran, retired ten years but still hale, with a forceful personality. When I was little, he’d march around with me on his shoulders while kitted out in his full uniform. I wasn’t surprised that he’d handed me information on how to be a doctor for Her Majesty’s Army, but I didn’t find out for sure what that envelope contained until I was on the train back to London. It was only then, when I was going back to the place I realised I now called home, that I felt like I was surfacing from the deep and could bear to look at what he’d given me.
---
Sherlock wasn’t in the flat when I got back. I headed up to my room and threw myself on the bed, staring at the ceiling blankly.
After a while I forced myself up and started unpacking. I hid the envelope inside one of the Bond novels Sherlock hated and refused to read. He’d probably know anyway, but strangely enough, I felt like this was something I had to protect him from.
I didn’t see Sherlock until the next day. He didn’t ask about my trip and instead forcibly dragged me into a dinner meeting with the agent from the record label, claiming he’d be bored to tears without me there. Life, as it was, moved on.
---
The agent had been impressed with the band, and their gig was a resounding success. They signed with the label, and started making their first album. The label paid for a hotel for all of them to stay in for three weeks while they did the initial recording.
Before Sherlock left, he looked at me for a long time, and told me, “John. When I come back, there are things we should talk about.”
I just nodded mutely, and then Sherlock left. Apparently he’d learned something about the need for words and conversations that I hadn’t yet managed. All I could think of was that it would be end of term soon, and that I had to make a decision. I thought of my parents, like Binary Stars, and Sarah scolding me. I thought of Sherlock’s brilliance, and how happy I was just to be a hanger-on in his world.
I always said before that I had a hidden impulsive streak, but I wonder if that wasn’t just a nice way of saying that I liked to run away.
I packed my bags and took care of my affairs by the end of the first week that Sherlock had gone.
---
The flat had always been dominated by Sherlock’s things. Not much changed in the sitting room once I packed my bags. There was still one of Sherlock’s many jackets thrown carelessly over the back of his armchair, his books spilling out of the shelves, papers and sheet music all over the floor, and the skull on the side-table, grinning.
Even so, it felt like something irreplaceable had been ripped away.
I left nothing except a sealed envelope with Sherlock’s name on it on the dining table, and my copy of the key to 221B.
---
Sherlock. Do you remember the first time we met?
Sometimes I think it was fate.
Stop laughing, you git. I’m trying to tell you something.
I think if the theory of multiple worlds were true, or perhaps the Hindu concept of cycles, I believe we’d meet in every world we existed, over and over. Perhaps it would only be a fleeting moment, a brushing of shoulders in the train as we passed each other by, or perhaps it would be under totally different circumstances. Perhaps we’d live the same lives, doomed never to learn from our mistakes. The specifics don’t really matter, but what does is this:
I believe we were fated to meet. And as with every mortal being that exists in the infinite universe, fated, also, to part.
But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I imagine I can see these other worlds, the two of us decades older but still sitting in 221B, in our own armchairs but still tilted towards each other as if by some strange magnetism.
Or perhaps as old men with white hair and wrinkled skin, tending bees and making honey in Sussex.
I rather botched things up, didn’t I? But the thing is, I can’t regret any of it, even if it might have always ended this way. Even if we end up like this in every world, I can’t be sorry, because that means, for a tiny speck of time, I got to see your brilliance.
And isn’t it absurd? Me, concocting scenarios in my head; to what end, I’m not sure. But you’ve always thought me absurd, so there’s not much new there.
There’s just one thing, Sherlock, that I wanted to ask. I know I have no right. But could you do this for me? One last thing, just for me.
I want to see your face plastered on every billboard. I want to turn on the radio and hear your voice. I want to turn on the telly and see you singing. I want to hear people screaming your name, and see your songs on top of the charts.
I want you to become famous all over the world so that wherever I end up, wherever the Army sends me, you’ll be there.
If that’s the only way I get to see you again, I want it. Would you do that for me? I won’t ask for anything else.
---
The post came in a week late because of a storm. The common room was buzzing with the sound of tearing paper and raucous laughter as the mail went around, isolated soldiers eager for every bit of human connection they could get.
There was never much of anything unexpected in my mail, usually just a rambling letter from Harry. Sometimes Mike or Sarah would send a note and a few trinkets from home.
Greg sent a package, once; I returned it unopened. I didn’t hear from him or anyone from the band after that.
Across me, O’Hara let out a delighted whoop as he tore into brown paper to reveal a VHS tape. “Yes! I can’t believe my sister actually came through!”
Stanley grabbed the tape interestedly. “What, your sister gives you porn?”
“It’s not porn, you berk. It’s a concert tape of a band I like.”
“Are you seriously trading bootlegged tapes? Isn’t that a bit old school?”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s not like we have the latest and greatest electronics here on base. If she sent me a DVD it’d be a paperweight. This way we can all watch.”
“Well, if we’re going to have a communal movie night I’d have hoped for something more exciting than a couple of gits jumping about a stage.” Even so, Stanley stood up and moved to the old Trinitron on the side of the room, with its ancient VHS player. It was a 32” monster, nearly as deep as it was high. One of the privates had broken his foot when they’d attempted to move the thing to the front. They gave it up as a bad job and left the thing where it was, instead making use of octopus extensions to plug it in.
Having finished reading Harry’s latest round of randomness and whinging, I turned to O’Hara curiously. “What band is it?” I was never a very musical person, but Sherlock’s influence meant I had at least a passing familiarity with the London music scene.
O’Hara lit up, obviously relishing an opportunity to talk about something he loved. “Oh, they’re a cracking band, Watson! They’re called the Irregulars. You’d love them, I’m sure. Their first album came out only a few months ago, but I’ve been following them since they launched their album at The Criterion.”
I hadn’t thought about The Criterion Bar in ages, but just the mention brought back memories of hazy smoke, flashing red lights, mesmerising music, and laughter. Always the laughter, be it Greg making off-colour jokes that made Molly blush, or Sally dumping her beer on Sherlock when she’d reached her limit, or Molly lying down on the middle of the dance floor after one drink. It hit me, suddenly, how desperately I missed all of them, not just Sherlock.
O’Hara hadn’t stopped talking, but I didn’t hear a word, at least until I caught my name in the middle of the speech. “Sorry, what?”
He grinned at my obvious inattention. “I said, I just wish I knew who John was.”
I blinked, feeling rather slow on the uptake. “John who?”
“That’s just it, no-one knows. Their lead singer always mentions him before each performance, sometimes casually, as if he were just talking to someone in the audience, but he’s always refused to reveal who the bloke really is. You’ll see when Stanley gets around to making the VHS work.”
As if on cue, a grainy image of The Irregulars appeared on the screen. Sherlock was front and centre, with a rather ridiculous-looking frilly romance shirt and shiny pants that were so tight they looked almost like leggings.
He was looking straight at the camera, and despite the quality of the video not being the best, I could feel the same tingle down my spine I always got when his eyes were on me.
“John,” said the grainy image, “Watch me. I’m going to make your wish come true.” Then he sang.
Most of the other soldiers in the room were indifferent; a few were swaying in their seats. A female corporal was dancing off to the side, tugging at her friend’s hand.
Just as with every other time, I stood still, watching quietly.
---
Did you ever wonder why that was, Sherlock? Why I was always frozen to the spot whenever you sang for me?
I never knew why, myself, not until that time.
When I left you that final letter, I wondered then if you’d understand, be able to read between the lines and know what I was trying to say. This wasn’t your area, after all.
As always, though, you were right: I’m an idiot.
I was worried about you not understanding love letters, when all this time I never realised that every song you sang was one.
---
O’Hara had only the one video, but he had a number of audio recordings of live performances collected over the months since their album was released. Each and every one had Sherlock saying some non-sequitur statement, no two the same save for the name they all contained.
“Get my pen from my jacket, John.”
“I broke your mug, John, but I bought another one.”
“John, we’re out of milk.”
At which point I blew up and yelled at the innocent Walkman, “Get your own fucking milk, you arse!”
O’Hara couldn’t stop laughing at me, and after a few seconds of embarrassment I gave in and collapsed beside him on the floor, laughing as well.
“You’re all right, Watson,” he said, slapping his hand on my shoulder when he finally got his breath back. “You’re all right.”
---
It was my first time staying at London again after more than a year. Usually when I had leave I visited Harry, or Mum. Now, though, I had some unexpected paperwork I had to deal with in the London office, so I had to spend my short leave alone in a crappy hotel.
Mike called the first day I was back. I wasn’t exactly sure how he knew how to contact me, or how he even knew I was in London, but he made a vague reference to Harry and I left it alone. I wasn’t really paying much attention, then, which was when Mike decided to ask me.
“Hey, listen. You know Patty, my girlfriend, yeah? Well, I suppose she’s my ex now. Sherlock gave us two tickets to their first concert last month as a birthday gift, but Patty broke up with me and now I don’t have anyone to go with. Would you be a mate and go with me?”
In the end, I hardly took any convincing at all.
---
The concert was for that weekend. The Irregulars had risen in popularity quickly, and it was their first large concert. Even so, I felt like I was back at The Criterion again, sitting at the front row.
The lights switched off, and then there was the shrill scream of a guitar, followed by the screaming of the people around us. There was a flash, and suddenly the entire stage was illuminated by strobing lights.
Sherlock was looking out into the audience, striking as ever, even in just a shirt with ripped sleeves and denims. Beside him, Greg was playing an ad-libbed riff, while Sally and Molly waited for their cue, Molly waving to the audience in the meantime. None of them looked down at the front row.
I was close enough to the stage not to need the screens to see Sherlock closing his eyes before speaking in the mic. “John,” said that infinitely familiar voice, “I’ll be in the flat after the concert.”
A singing violin joined the guitar, a stringed duet.
It suddenly came to me that I knew that tune, was intimately familiar with it. It was the melody Sherlock played at night, when we’d both be up late, me after a late shift or studying, him composing or thinking. It was the incomplete duet, now rendered whole. I didn’t recognise Greg playing it initially because I’d never heard it outside of late nights at 221B.
The tune cut off abruptly, and I heard Sally counting, “One, two, three,” and they launched into a pounding, pulsating beat.
They’d improved their showmanship as a band; even Molly was bouncing about and using the whole stage. Their sound and energy remained the same, though. Their music always made my blood heat and race. Beside me Mike was cheering like a loon.
There was a buzz in the atmosphere, and it was a feeling that seemed to travel through the huge stadium and electrified the air. There was no other way to describe the energy; it was as if a current was running through every person in there.
Sherlock was magnificent, giving everything he had for two hours. During that entire time, though, even after two encores, he never once glanced at the front row.
---
“So,” Mike asked, feigning nonchalance as we emerged into the cool night, “What are your plans? Do you need a ride anywhere?”
I smiled at my friend. His breakup with Patty wasn’t a fiction, but Sarah told me about it in a letter two months ago, before Mike ever got the tickets for the concert. “Thank you.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“Yes, I’m going to need a ride. Baker Street, if it’s not too out of the way.”
Mike’s answering grin was one of the smuggest things I’d ever seen.
---
When I opened the door, he was already there, standing against the windows and blocking the faint light that filtered through. He was looking out at the street. I had no idea what he saw whenever he looked that way. After all this time, I still knew so little about what went through his mind.
I decided to start with trivialities, because the important words seemed stuck in my throat again. “I’m surprised there’s no-one new living here. Did Mrs. Hudson not rent it out again?”
“I’ve been paying the rent.”
“All this time?” It had been more than a year, and I knew for a fact that Sherlock had moved soon after I left.
“I plan to buy it out someday.” His back was still turned to me, and the lights outside Baker Street cast a soft glow around the dark room. At that moment, I felt like I did when he was singing. “Someday I’ll own this place. I’ll continue on with the work, and make sure my face is plastered on every billboard and ad and news broadcast, so you don’t forget.”
Silly Sherlock. I could never forget. And for once, I thought I understood.
We had no guarantees, even more so now. I was training in the army, and Sherlock’s star was rising fast. I was only on leave for a week, and Sherlock would have to go on tour soon as well. I had no idea what even tomorrow would bring.
But then, this moment would always exist. If we were fated to always return to endings and heartbreak, I realised, it didn’t matter, because that meant I could always return to this moment as well.
“Sherlock. Right now, we’re chasing different things we both can’t let go of, but I think someday, when we’re both older, perhaps, God forbid, a bit wiser, more settled, I’d like to live here again, with you.” I moved next to him by the window, looking at his profile out of the corner of my eye.
He didn’t speak for a long time; I was worried that maybe I had misinterpreted again, that he didn’t want anything to do with me after all. Then he cleared his throat, and asked:
“Everyone went to Angelo's to celebrate. They should still be there. Come with me?”
The future stretched out bright before me, like a spiral road.
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. God, only Sherlock could make me smile as if my cheeks were going to split apart. “Yeah, I’d like that.”